


On The Brink of Collapse

by LenleG



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, hurt!virgil, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenleG/pseuds/LenleG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt fill fic. Virgil hardly notices he's not been eating right, that is, until they get called out on a rescue. Virgil finds himself down a mine, looking into the faces of two terrified children and he's not sure he has the strength to save them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On The Brink of Collapse

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from doomed-raven: "Because Virgil is the middle child he's ignored. Lately he's not eating/bottling everything up/keeping quiet because he doesn't think anyone wants to know until he ends up passing out and getting trapped in a" mineshaft.

It starts out simple, with Virgil skipping breakfast one morning. No-one comments on it, and Virgil supposes, with a shrug, that his brothers just didn’t notice. It’s not a big deal anyway. He ends up skipping breakfast again on Sunday and then he finds he just doesn’t have time on Monday. He only has a glass of orange juice on Tuesday and then on Wednesday and he stops eating breakfast all together; it wasn’t really the most important meal of the day anyway. _Right?_ So it shouldn’t be a problem. He’s never exactly been a morning person, and so by the time he gets up really far too late for breakfast anyway. He doesn’t think his brothers will miss him as they sit around the table, flicking cereal at each other and fighting over whose going to get up and make the next round of toast. He’s never been much of a fan of breakfast anyway.

But then he finds himself skipping dinner as well the following Friday. He’s just not very hungry. It had been a long day; a landslide and the attempted rescue of thirteen trapped civilians. All but one of them had survived and would be going home to their families tonight. She’d been a little girl, Scandinavian, blond and scared and by the time Virgil had reached her, her eyes had been wide and empty and blank, her airways full of thick, gritty mud and her expression twisted in a grimace of horror.

Virgil doesn’t feel much like facing his own family again after that. Not when that little girl never would. He knows what Scott would say, he’d repeat their Father’s favourite mantra, the ‘ _you can’t save everyone_ ’ line and Virgil is repeating it, over and over in his head but it doesn’t seem to be helping. Instead of finding food, Virgil curls up under his duvet and tugs his headphones over his ears, trying to drown out his Father’s voice and that little girl’s screams. Suffocating them with songs feels a lot like a child suffocating in a landslide and that leaves Virgil feeling like he’s suffocating as well, his chest tight and his cheeks pale.

He goes down for lunch the following day, and finds the family dining table empty of occupants. Grandma, bustling out of the kitchen, tells Virgil to help himself to whatever he would like from the cupboards as she leaves. She tells him that his brothers are all busy this afternoon. As is often the case. Alan has a Formula One test match. Gordon has gone diving. John is on Five. Scott is with Brains in his lab, going over schematics and their Grandma is bringing out a plate of the Lady Penelope’s favourite crumpets for them both, and _if you would like some dear they’re in the bread bin._

Virgil, with the chance to make his favourite foods and nothing to stop him, instead finds himself staring blankly into the cupboards, eyes listless over the rows of bright, inviting packages. He just doesn’t really fancy anything. His stomach feels tight, and he’s a little nauseous. There just not anything he really wants to eat in the cupboards. He could make pasta or fry some chips or just down an entire litre of ice cream and call it a day, but strangely, for once, he doesn’t much feel like it. Raiding the cupboards has lost its appeal.

Instead, Virgil downs three glasses of water and goes up to his studio to try and paint. But when he gets there he can’t seem to find any inspiration and he’s developing a headache. The blank canvas is glaring mockingly at him and his sketchbook has been resting on his lap, open and white, with his pencil hovering pointlessly over the page for a good hour or so. Sighing, Virgil gives up; he just can’t seem to think of anything to draw. There’s nothing he _wants_ to draw. All he really feels like doing is lying on the floor and staring blankly at the ceiling. It’s odd, because he’s not even thinking about that poor little girl anymore; he just doesn’t feel like doing anything. He’s listless, empty. Pointless. His brothers are all busy and none of them are missing him.

Virgil ends up going to bed instead, forgetting the things he could be doing to cheer himself up. He doesn’t think of his piano or his notebook full of half-finished painting ideas. He doesn’t head out to find Scott and help him with the plans he’d been working on, he doesn’t pick up the latest issue of the engineering magazine he’d been enamoured with a couple of days ago, he doesn’t go hash out his problems by running himself ragged in the gym. He doesn’t think of taking a relaxing shower or making a hot coffee or digging out his cookie stash. In fact, Virgil doesn’t do _any_ of the things he would normally, to try and pull himself out of his funk. He doesn’t even phone John, as he usually does to check in on his brother after a long day. John is isolated up there, and while his brother likes the quiet, Virgil knows John relies on them to keep him sane. But then, as the evening wears on, John doesn’t call him either and Virgil decides he doesn’t want to burden his brother with his head full of screaming children anyway. No, it’s probably best he doesn’t call John. He doesn’t want to be a nuisance.

Virgil is asleep when Scott comes to fetch him for dinner. The eldest Tracy boy frowns down at his little brother’s pale, drawn face with a touch of concern in his brows. Sighing, Scott decides that Virgil is probably just a bit sleep deprived, and that he could use the rest. He closes the door softly as he leaves, to not disturb him, and Virgil doesn’t end up eating that evening either.

Virgil wakes up grumpy, late into the next morning, and he snaps irrationally at poor Alan, when his littlest brother tries to invite him out watch his racing trials. Confused, and a little hurt, Alan goes off on his own, leaving Virgil to stomp back to his room, grizzling like a bear with a sore head, to lock himself in and blast out some of his favourite music, the volume turned up loud enough to disturb the neighbours (who are technically 900 miles away by sea). His stomach hurts, crawling with hunger like there are maggots living in there, wriggling around and eating at his insides, but he still can’t think of anything he actually wants to eat. The idea of food is repulsive right now.

Virgil doesn’t feel like leaving his room either, he doesn’t want to see anyone; doesn’t want to _talk_ to anyone. John calls, finally, but Virgil doesn’t answer it, letting the communicator ring off instead. John doesn’t call again. Virgil curls up in his duvet again, his head tilted back against his headboard and his eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. It’s frustrating. He wants to get up and do something but there’s nothing much he wants to do. He’s angry at nothing, his head throbbing, and he’s just so lethargic it’s difficult to put any thought into the desire to move.

Then the warning alarm starts to go off, the noise grating and sharp in his ears, and Virgil is up and on his feet before he can even think about what he is doing. The wave of dizziness that hits him is completely unexpected. His head is pounding and he has to stand perfectly still, trying not to topple over, as his vision grey’s back in in a burst of fizzling static that blooms across his eyeballs like monochrome fireworks, or television static when the aerial gets knocked. He can hear his pulse, thudding in his ears, overly loud and obnoxious and that irritates Virgil too.

It’s a rescue call, obviously, and Virgil slides onto the living room sofa beside Scott to finds he has a hard time concentrating as John talks them through what they’re needed for. The mission sounds like the retrieval of two little Belgian boys, who were last seen playing by an old, abandoned mineshaft. Virgil doesn’t catch why the authorities there can’t deal with the scene, but he pieces together than John is sending him and Scott out, together for once in Thunderbird Two, to scout out the mine and rescue the children.

“...Virgil?” The world catches up with him and Virgil finds himself looking up at Scott, who is frowning sharply at him. “Were you even listening?” He grumbles and Virgil doesn’t reply because, no, he’s not exactly sure he was. Scott rolls his eyes and tugs him upright, forcing Virgil to ignore the way his vision swims as he does so. Scott gives him a hearty shove between the shoulder blades, directing him towards the chute to Thunderbird Two and Virgil does his best not to stumble as he walks over to it.

He meets Scott, both of them outfitted in International Rescue blues, in Two’s cockpit and it takes a bizarre moment for Virgil to remember why they were both there. Mission. Children in a mine. Him and Scott. Virgil’s head is still pounding, tight and painful across his forehead. His hands are working over Two’s familiar leavers on autopilot, John streaming coordinates into his ear for him to input and the launch sequence, familiar and safe, has been punched in. Then they’re shuddering towards the open air, the palm trees flattening as the thruster’s fire and they rocket up into the sky.

1600 feet. 2000 feet. 2400 feet. They climb and level out; John’s coordinates directing Virgil out from the Southern Pacific, angling over South America and then coasting up the edge of Africa towards France. Virgil is still working on autopilot, ignoring the bizarre trembling of his fingers on the steering column. They feel numb and heavy and not quite right.

They touch down in Belgium and then they’re out, everything passing Virgil in a whirl. A panicked mother is crying for them to help her boys and so Scott sends Virgil down the mine to retrieve them. It should be a simple enough job and they don’t both need to go down. It takes Virgil a few moments more than it usually would have done to strap himself into the winch harness though and he looks up to see Scott, ready at the winch handle to lower him down, frowning at him.

“I’m ready.” Virgil injects a confidence he does not feel into his voice and it looks like it eases Scott’s mind a little, as his brother smiles, his dimples tucking into his cheeks.

It’s not a very long decent down into the mine, perhaps a little less than double Virgil’s own head height, and he unclips himself as he reaches the bottom, looking up at Scott, only about a meter above him. The tunnel seems quite stable, as it slopes down gently into the earth, and the path worms its way down into pitch blackness. The Mother of the children he was looking for had been worried of a cave in though, and these tunnels were practically ancient, so Virgil goes carefully, feeling his way slowly along the black walls. Belatedly, as Virgil strikes his shin against some rubble, he remembers blearily that he should have turned his headlamp on by now, and as he does so the beam illuminates the coal-black tunnels and they trail through the rock. He’s a little cold, and his head is still throbbing. Weary, Virgil shakes his head to try and clear it, and he pushes on. His eyelids feel heavy.

He knows he’s getting close, as he begins to hear soft, muffled crying, and Virgil calls out a customary “Hello?” into the darkness up ahead. The voices appear to hear him, and the children begin screaming in French, calling for his help. Virgil is glad it’s French, which he knows a little bit of, and not Dutch or German; as were possible in Belgium. Virgil stumbles upon the boys several hundred meters ahead of him. They’re curled into the black expanse, at an intersection of the tunnels. His head torch illuminates the bigger boy, a ginger headed young man with a sharply pointed chin and a cowlick curl, who is huddled over the littler blond one, his arms tight and protective around his sobbing brother. There’s obvious rubble all around them, and it looks as if there has, indeed, been a cave-in. Gently, Virgil pry’s the torch from his headlamp and sets it down on a rock, illuminating the tunnel, rather than blinding the kids.

In awkward, halting French, Virgil stoops down and does his best to ask the boy’s for their names, the phrases only really half-stringing itself together. He’s not sure how much of that is his bad French and how much is his exhaustion. The bigger boy, Lukas apparently, is the one who answers him, gesticulating wildly over his little brother Aaron and babbling away, obviously very concerned for the other child. Virgil can’t understand most of what the kid is trying to say, but Aaron’s leg is bent at an odd angle and the little boy, perhaps six years old, his sobbing hysterically, clinging to his big brother with his face red and shiny with tears.

“Right then. Scott,” Virgil calls into his communicator, ignoring the slight crackle of static that tells of his being underground, “I’ve found the boy’s; one has a broken leg. I’m going to strap it up and bring them out to you.” Virgil decides, already stooping down and bringing out his medi-kit.

“F-A-B Virg.” Comes the solid, warm reply from Scott’s end and Virgil smiles reassuringly at the two boys, rummaging in the medi-kit to find a child sized brace. He doesn’t set the bone, the paramedics waiting up top will do a better job of that, but he gently reaches out to strap it up with deft hands that shake a little more around Aaron’s ankle than he would have liked them too. He also shoots 5cc of something a little stronger than aspirin into the kid’s veins, mostly to stop him from screaming so much. He tries to shoot both children another reassuring smile as he finishes, catching Lucas’ fearful expression, but Virgil thinks it probably looks more like a grimace.

“We’re coming up Scott.” Virgil tells his brother, clipping his light back into place. He goes to find his feet again, but that’s the moment his vision totally grey’s out, crackling down into static white noise and fuzzy shapes and he topples, dizzy and disorientated against the wall, scraping his palms on the rough stone. He does his best to re-gather all his senses again as fast as he can, blinking rapidly to try and clear his vision. Virgil is steadfastly trying to ignore the burning sensation in the pit of his stomach and the way his insides feel like someone has crammed a load of broken glass in there. Gathering his head, Virgil tries to reach down and scoop the boy’s up, with the intention of settling one on each hip.

What, for big, powerhouse like Virgil, should have been easy proves to be incredibly difficult. It’s like all the strength has gone out of his arms and he fumbles, almost dropping little, red headed Lucas. He staggers slightly, re-positioning the boy as the child, all long limbs and pointy elbows, loops his arms around Virgil’s neck. Thunderbird Two’s pilot looks down into that scared little face, with the bright hair and those blue eyes and he’s struck, suddenly, with the thought that this kid looks an awful lot like John had looked when _he_ was twelve.

And if Lucas looks like John, then the littlest boy, Aaron who is pale and blond with the very same big blue eyes, looks so much like their own little Alan used to that Virgil’s heart sticks in his throat. He looks just like Alan had done when they pulled him out of the avalanche that claimed their mother’s life. It’s the same awful, pain-torn expression on his face. Virgil remembers, distantly, that he’d fought with Alan just that morning, and the poor kid had never done anything wrong. He’d never even managed to talk to John.

Having finally positioned Lucas correctly, Virgil does his best to stoop down, his limbs groaning in the process like the branches of an old gnarly tree, and, mindful of the child’s broken leg, Virgil settles Aaron on his opposite hip, letting his brother ramble away in French to try and calm him. John knows perfect French.

The first step isn’t so bad, but then, by the thirtieth, Virgil’s limbs are aching and trembling and he can’t work out why he feels so bloody exhausted all of a sudden. It’s like all the energy he has ever possessed has just been leeched from his bones. Virgil staggers along the tunnel, the weight of the two, slight boys is horrifyingly almost too much for him. He hasn’t been in the gym for almost six days and his limbs feel thin and weak. Swallowing thickly and dryly, Virgil forces himself to take wider steps, one after the other after the other. His breathing is strained and raspy in his chest and his vision is all blurred and wobbly. He feels a little sick. His headache is getting worse and worse. Lucas tucks his head into the curve of Virgil’s neck and clings on tightly as they wobble. Aaron’s cries sniffle themselves out.

After what feels like forever, staggering along this endless tunnel, suddenly Virgil is being blinded by the glaring circle of the opening he’d come down. It’s about a meter in front and above him. Lucas cries out, calling for his mother, who he can hear now calling their names, but little Aaron stays concerningly silent and still the crook of his arm. With a long, painful groan, Virgil’s knees give from under him and he almost falls, crumbling to his knees. He doesn’t think he can carry both boys out like this, and he finds himself setting Aaron down, the boy quiet and pale, as he leans the chid against the black rock and forces himself back onto his feet. He’ll pass Lucas up first.

“Virgil?” Scott is a few meters above him now, and he’s watching Virgil stagger along, carrying Lucas with that sharp frown back on his face.

“Take John.” Virgil finds his mouth shaping and Scott looks alarmed at that. It sounds like it’s supposed to be a joke, but the way Virgil says it has Scott, who is reaching down to take the child from him, certain that it wasn’t. Scott notes his little brother’s brown eyes are dazed and a little unfocused and they’re ringed by dark circles, as Scott seizes Lucas under the armpits and lifts him out of Virgil’s trembling arms and easily to safety.

“Virgil?” he calls back down again, after handing the boy with John’s ginger kiss curl over to the waiting Belgian paramedics and the children’s frantic mother. The kid had appeared unhurt and the medics were just bundling him in a blanket and checking his pupils for shock. _What was taking Virgil?_ Scott frowns. Thunderbird Two’s pilot had only set the other boy down a few meters away, but it feels like it’s taking him forever to retrieve him. Virgil is just up the tunnel somewhere, momentarily out of sight and Scott finds himself chewing at his bottom lip; an awful habit he’d picked up from his mother when he was young.

Scott, impatient and concerned, is about to call Virgil on his communicator, when he reappears. He’s using one hand to brace himself against the tunnel wall, dirt crumbling under his fingers as they slide along, and the child, Aaron, is balance on his opposite hip, tucked into his shoulder. The little boy’s fists are curled into the tough, slightly dirty fabric of Virgil’s uniform and his forehead is pressed to the man’s collarbone, Aaron’s little nose touching, cold and smeary against the hollow of his shoulder.

Virgil’s face and hair and uniform are dirty, as if he’d fallen. His knees are trembling under him. Scott blanches at the look on his face as Virgil angles it blearily upwards to peer at him.

“Alan’s hurt Scotty.” And no, that’s not a joke either, because while the child might have blue eyes and blond hair, the face shape is all wrong and Virgil’s tone is perfectly, desperately serious. His eyes are unfocused and he looks on the brink of collapse. Alarm bells have started to go off in Scott’s head.

Virgil, his arms trembling and straining, discovers he can’t find the strength to pass the boy up to Scott. He struggles and strains to lift the child, but then Virgil’s knees give from under him and they topple, losing the argument with gravity, hitting the ground hard. Virgil’s body cushions Aaron’s fall and they sprawl in a heap in the dirt.

“Virgil! What the hell is wrong with you?!?” Scott shouts down, and Virgil can only angle his head back to stare blearily up at Scott’s round face. He can practically see the cogs ticking over inside his eldest brother’s head. Scott’s eyes widen and his hand comes up to cover his mouth as he _realises_. “Oh _Virgil_.” Scott’s eyes are so wide and so _hurt_ that Virgil almost wants to look away again. “You didn’t have any dinner last night. I don’t think I’ve seen you eat in...” Scott sucks in a breath, counting the days in his head. “ _Why?_ ” he chokes out, after a beat. “Virgil?” But Virgil, who does look a little on the skinny side now you mention it, is not answering him; he hasn’t moved from his date with the dirt. “Virg?” still no answer and Scott swears softly, he can’t quite tell from this vantage point whether or not his brother’s eyes are still open.

Quickly clipping himself into the harness winch, Scott sets it to automatic belay, and leans out backwards over the lip of the mineshaft. He begins to slowly walk himself down the crumbling wall, knowing that he’s showering the pair below with dirt, but neither makes any sound of complaint before he touches down. He hurries over and crouches by his brother, shaking Virgil’s shoulder and softly calling his name. There’s no response, Thunderbird Two’s pilot has his eyes closed and his head has lolled onto his shoulder. Is it just Scott, or do Virgil’s cheekbones seem more prominent? It might just be the shadows of the tunnel, but Scott is suddenly fearfully unsure.

Gently, Scott pries the boy they were _supposed_ to be rescuing away from Virgil’s unconscious death grip and he finds the child’s breathing is stunted, his eyes half lidded. Perhaps shock, perhaps the pain, perhaps something else; Scott needs to get him up top, where the paramedics can see to him.

Lodging Aaron on his own hip, Scott adjusts his climbing rope and finds his first hand hold. He spares a quick, guilty glance at his own brother, but he only hesitates for a second before tightening his grip on the rope and beginning to climb, one handed, using his legs to push himself and Aaron up the slightly-unstable wall. The winch reels in as he goes, aiding them upwards.

He’s barely over the edge before Aaron is being taken from his arms and hurried over to the medics. He’s having his hand shaken and he’s being thanked before he can pull himself away to explain that his job is not done yet and his colleague is still down there, waiting to be pulled out.

“Virgil?” Scott breaks away and calls down and he’s relieved to see his brother’s head angled upwards, Virgil’s brown eyes soft and confused, but open and focused on him.

“Scotty?” Virgil blinks slowly, struggling to regain control over his limbs and he tries to push himself up onto his knees. “Where’s the kid?”

“I got him out, he’s with the paramedics. Do you think you can get to the winch harness, Virgil? I can pull you up if you clip yourself back on.” Scott’s voice is soft and concerned and something in Virgil briefly thinks it’s nice, to have someone who cares. The harness feels miles away though. “Come on Virg, I know you’re tired, you can do it. Come on.” Scott is encouraging, meters above him, as he holds the line steady as Virgil grasps wildly for it, fumbling to hook on his carabiner.

And then he’s moving, being winched upwards and then Scott’s arms are tight around him, feeling the press of his ribs against him with his chin is tucked over the top of Virgil’s head. Scott hasn’t cradled him like this since he was seven or eight with scuffed knees and gappy front teeth. His big brother’s shoulders are shaking and Virgil can only cling on, with numb fingers, and his breath raspy in his chest.

“You _idiot._ ” Scott growls into his dirty hair, the arms tightening further. “You stupid _idiot_.” His tone is angry and protective and Virgil gets the press of Scott’s lips against his forehead and Scott’s fists bunched in his uniform top as he’s dragged upright, Scott slinging Virgil’s arm over his shoulders and _heaving_ them both until they’re standing.

The stagger back to Thunderbird Two is done in silence and Virgil is pushed roughly into his seat. Scott flies them home, which is just as well as Virgil has no idea what he’s doing anymore. His stomach is cramping painfully and he’s just so tired and then he’s being pushed out of his ‘bird and bundled up the stairs and forced down on the living room sofa.

Scott stands over him and _glares._

“Scott? Virgil?” And that’s Alan, poking his head around the doorframe and Virgil is up, on his feet with his arms around his baby brother before he can stop himself. He’s whispering a soft _I’m sorry for snapping at you this morning_ into Alan’s hair and the youngest Tracy looks up at him, confused. He’d forgotten about that hours ago.

“Virgil? What’s wrong?” Alan calls, because Virgil is swaying like a leaf in the wind and there’s no colour in his face and the arms are trembling around him.

“Oh for god’s sake Virgil, sit down before you pass out.” And that’s Scott again, taking him by the upper arm and leading him over to the sofa. Virgil gets plopped down in the seat and Scott turns to his littlest brother. “Alan, I want you to go to the kitchen and bring this idiot a mug of that soup we had last night and a glass of juice. I’m going to call Gordon down; he should have finished his dive by now. Virgil don’t you _dare_ move from that sofa while we’re gone.”

Virgil mutters something vaguely affirmative in recognition; he doesn’t feel like he could move even if he tried. He can’t quite seem to get comfortable on the sofa either, his limbs feel hard against the cushions and his ribs ache. He lets his head fall back against the backrest and he closes his eyes, ignoring the way stars burst in the blackness.

“Virgil? Virgil?” Someone is shaking his shoulder again and Virgil forces his eyes back open. Someone has tucked a blanket over him without him realising and Scott’s face is crumpled with concern.

“What’s wrong with him?” And that sounds like Gordon, somewhere to his left, but Virgil can’t quite seem to put the strength into his neck to turn and look.

“This idiot hasn’t eaten anything in... I’m not even sure how many days.” Scott growls, ignoring the harsh intakes of breath from both Gordon and Alan behind him. “He downright collapsed on the mission. Those boys could have _died_ , Virgil. What if you were down there and couldn’t bring them out? What if there had been another cave in? _You_ could have died. This team works on trust and I need to be able to trust that you’ll tell me when you’re not fit for a job. When you haven’t been eating, Virgil.” There’s no reply from the middle Tracy, not even when Gordon, his face sad and broken, asks him _why_.

“Virgil?” And that’s John’s voice, crackling with static; someone must have called him. Virgil finally manages a half-shrug, his eyes blank and listless, that he forgets John probably can’t see.

“Maybe it’s worse than I thought.” Scott mutters, leaning in close “How many days _has_ it been, Virg?” His fingers are deft on Virgil’s cheeks, running over the ridge of his cheekbones and Scott sighs heavily; all the anger going out of him and leaving only the concern. “Here, think you can drink this?” A glass of orange juice is being pressed into Virgil’s shaking hand. Alan is hovering, small and pale just inside his peripheral and Virgil feels a pang of guilt for making his youngest brother worry, so he does his best to curl this trembling fingers around the cup and tip it back against his dry lips.

The first mouthful of juice is sharp and clean tasting but it _burns_ on the way down, like he’s trying to drink molten lava or broken glass. His whole oesophagus feels tight and the slide of liquid against it is physically painful. He can feel the juice pooling in his shrivelled stomach and he groans, throwing his head back and scrunching his eyes shut to will the feeling away. The juice sits in his stomach, heavy and sloshing and Virgil feels a little sick.

“Come on Virgil. Drink it. Don’t make me put your stubborn ass on an IV instead.” Scott’s long fingers are massaging reassuringly at his shoulder blades and his voice is coloured by worry. Alan has climbed up on the sofa next to him and is peering anxiously at his face.

He forces himself to take another mouthful. It’s like daggers in his throat, almost impossibly hard to swallow. He chokes slightly, trying not to gag and the feeling takes him as much by surprise as the whole thing has on the rest of them. Virgil forces the juice down, swallowing hard against the mounting pressure in his throat and by the time he’s finished the whole glass he feels more than a little nauseous.

And then Scott switches the empty glass out for a hot mug of vegetable soup and a hunk of bread and Virgil _glares_ at him through half lidded eyes. He doesn’t want to do this, he just wants to curl up in his duvet and sleep and he’d throw the mug right back at Scott’s stupid face if he didn’t have little Alan’s fingers curled around his wrist, helping him tip the mug up. He’d snapped irrationally at Alan once today already. He’s not going to do it again.

The soup is even worse than the juice. His stomach screams at him and Virgil just wants to give it up, he doesn’t care. But his brothers are talking him through each sip, gentle and encouraging and Gordon’s fingers are combing through his hair and Virgil knows he’s been an idiot, just like Scott said.

He only manages three quarters of the mug before his stomach is full and Scott lifts it away with another sigh, setting it down on the sideboard. He loops his arm up, around Virgil’s shoulder, pressing his little brother into his side. It doesn’t matter than Virgil is taller and broader than him, somehow big brothers prerogative lets Scotty tuck him in and rest his chin on his forehead. Gordon, from behind, loops his arms around Virgil’s neck, burying his face in his brother’s sharp collarbone and Alan curls up on his other side, his cheek pressed to Virgil’s chest.

“Think you’re ready to talk to us now, big guy?” And that’s John’s voice again, reminding him that _all_ his brothers were there for him, even if they couldn’t be physically and Virgil exhales heavily, almost dislodging Alan as he does so. He owes them an explanation.

“I wasn’t really thinking straight.” Virgil starts, ignoring the grumbled ‘ _well duh’_ from Gordon in his ear. “I just wasn’t very hungry. Breakfast was a lot of hassle and then, later, so was lunch and dinner.” Scott has tensed up along his left side, his fingers bunching in Virgil’s dirty suit.

“How long have you been skipping meals?” That’s John talking still; always the calming voice of reason. His tone is steady and comforting, but it’s been tainted by the sharp edge of worry.

“A while,” Virgil sighs, “but it’s only been the last couple of days it’s gotten bad. It was after we lost that little girl in Scandinavia. I suppose eating felt like choking on mud.” His voice is flat and Virgil feels his brothers arms all tighten around him. “I know I can’t go on like this, it just, snuck up on me I guess. I wasn’t thinking. I’m just tired and hungry and...”

“Ok Virgil.” Scott presses his lips firmly to Virgil’s brow. “Ok. I want you to sleep, for a couple of hours, and then we’ll wake you for dinner. You can sleep here with all of us hovering or, if you feel up to it, we can help you to your room.” Virgil can feel the soft puff of Gordon’s breath against his skin and he really doesn’t feel up to moving any time soon.

“I... I think I’ve spent a little too long on my own in my room.” He tells them, “If it’s not too much trouble, I’ll stay here.”

“Not at all little brother.” Scott smiles and he pulls the blanket up higher around Virgil’s shoulders, tucking him in like their mother would have done when he was a boy. “Now close your eyes.” Big brother commands and Virgil sinks welcomely into the blackness of unconsciousness. He doesn’t even dream.

They wake him in time for tea, and Virgil does his best to choke down the light, unseasoned chicken and noodles he’s been made under the watchful eyes of his brothers. They stick close to him, for several days, vigilantly watching is calorie intake, but Virgil finds that for once he doesn’t mind all the smothering.

He doesn’t get the chance to feel lonely when his brothers are around.

It’s not a perfect recovery. He still skips a couple of meals after tough rescues and has a huge, awful fight with Scott when he finds out. But he knows now, properly, that next time something bothers him, he knows he can talk to them.


End file.
